


You Suck

by collie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: About as Fluffy as I Get, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, But it Ended Up Having a Little Plot?, Canon Compliant, Eventual Vampire!Stiles, Face-Fucking, Finger Sucking, Future Fic, Kind of fluffy, M/M, Mention of past Scott/Stiles, Oral Fixation, POV Derek Hale, This Was Meant to Be a PWP, Thumb-sucking, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collie/pseuds/collie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's obviously rude and insensitive when Derek grabs Stiles by the wrist and yanks his thumb out of his mouth, but Stiles just snorts a laugh when it's immediately replaced with one of the bigger curly fries out of his Arbys' bag.</p><p>“You're going to get buck teeth,” Derek says, folding his arms and looking pointedly at Stiles.</p><p>“I am not–” Stiles cuts himself off as his tongue darts over his upper lip. He makes a face and runs it over over his front teeth, lip skinning up in an unintentional baring of teeth. “Do I have buck teeth?” he panics. The curly fries are forgotten and dropped into the trash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Suck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theaeblackthorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaeblackthorn/gifts), [stmurr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stmurr/gifts), [vampireisthenewblack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampireisthenewblack/gifts), [venis_envy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/gifts).



> So, basically, I dared myself to write this. I'd never considered thumb-sucking as a kink before, but got to talking about it on twitter with a few lovely ladies, and figured I'd give it a try. It's meant to be a silly story, so try not to take it seriously. ;D 
> 
> This is dedicated to [theaeblackthorn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theaeblackthorn), [stmurr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stmurr), [vampireisthenewblack](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vampireisthenewblack), and [venis_envy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy). The vampire thing is all their fault, too. (✿ ♥‿♥)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> A million, billion, zillion thanks, and much love, to the amazing [venivincere](http://archiveofourown.org/users/venivincere) for the beta! ♥ Because of her, this fic is also dedicated to Arby's curly fries and zombie porn. (✿-_ ⊙;)ゞ
> 
> Post high-school/future-fic with no actual spoilers for show canon.

The sheriff finally drops the news after the third body in as many months is found. All female joggers, all on the short side, and all three bodies are discovered on the path through some of the denser parts of the preserve. The killing stroke is a jagged laceration to the throat while the victim is still on her feet, and then there is the thing with their abdomens being torn into and internal organs eaten.

Derek and Stiles are definitely considering a Jaculus as the culprit. Derek, however, is currently distracted from his research by the sloppy, wet sounds coming from Stiles, who's seated at the other end of the table. With an inquisitive cant of his head, Derek kicks metaphorical dirt in the face of propriety and finally decides to just bring it up.

“Why do you do that?” he asks, all grace and consideration for Stiles's feelings (except not). His lightly narrowed eyes latch to Stiles's thumb which is jammed firmly between his lips, and _has_ been for the better part of nearly ten minutes. It's not the first time Derek has noticed Stiles's juvenile addiction, but it's been getting progressively more frequent lately, and his curiosity is demanding satisfaction.

Stiles's eyes dart sidelong and slide onto Derek's face just as he slips his thumb from his mouth, the skin all wrinkled and bitten, shiny with spit. Derek's brows draw together a bit.

“What?” Stiles asks, and Derek can hear the slight hitch in his voice, the upswing that indicates surprise. The beat of his pulse increases: anxiety. Oh, because he doesn't even realize he's been doing it.

Derek lifts an eyebrow and taps his own thumb before gesturing at Stiles. The kid's cheeks splotch pink and his lips part in that obnoxious, mouth-breathing way they do, when he's too busy thinking to pay attention to anything his body's doing. He looks down at his hand like it's offensive. Derek rolls his eyes lightly, because it annoys him how often Stiles looks like an idiot when he's nothing of the sort.

“I, uh... guess I never really stopped,” Stiles admits with a bit of a shrug before pushing to his feet, wiping his hand surreptitiously on the thigh of his khakis. “Anxiety... sort of thing. Oh, hey, look at the time.”

Derek lets him leave without a word. He doesn't feel especially bad for embarrassing Stiles, because if he's embarrassed by it then he probably shouldn't be doing it in the first place. Right?

He decides the Jaculus is a more likely guess than a dragon, so they'll go with that.

 

Derek is pretty sure the Jaculus is hiding in the trees along the jogging path. Stiles rolls his eyes and snarks at him a bit, because _obviously_ , but Derek ignores it. He has a lot of practice ignoring Stiles's more irritating traits.

“My dad said I stopped doing it when I was four,” Stiles says as he unwraps his Double Whopper and crumples up the wrapper in his free hand, dropping it into the bag. “The thumb thing. He doesn't know I started doing it again after my mom died.”

“Never had a woobie?” Derek asks with their friendly level of sarcasm as he mindlessly shoves three fries into his mouth. He stares out the Toyota's windows, watching for movement in the trees. Stiles is along mainly for backup and company, because now that he's eighteen, Derek doesn't have to break up a perfectly good stakeout to get him home by midnight.

“Did you just say woobie?” Stiles asks around a mouthful of burger, slender hand popping up to shield his mouth so no flying burger bits get onto Derek's upholstery. “Did _you_ have a woobie?”

“Every kid has a woobie,” Derek retorts, shooting Stiles an incredulous look as he fingers two more fries. “So, why the thumb?”

Stiles shrugs and takes another bite, a lot bigger than the first because he obviously doesn't want to say why. He turns to stare out the passenger side window, leaving Derek watching his profile for a moment before dropping his eyes to Stiles's hand.

It's weird, but now that he's asked, he can't help seeing that wet sheen on Stiles's thumb all the time, despite it being perfectly dry. He can even smell Stiles's spit, but that's probably just from the burger. All the chewing. He thinks about Stiles's mouth a lot, and this thumb-sucking thing isn't helping.

“I had a big stuffed wolf,” Derek admits before finishing off his fries.

Stiles snorts. “Of course you did,” he says, a little smile tugging the edges of his lips.

“Shut up.”

 

The Jaculus is about nine feet long and has _wings,_ and makes a decent mess when Derek finally tears its head off. Derek lets Stiles use the shower first. While they've both had their share of blood and guts on them over the past two years, Derek is a little more accustomed to enduring it than Stiles.

He doesn't expect Stiles to still be around when he walks out of the bathroom after his own shower. But there he is, sprawled out on his side in Derek's bed, one arm shoved up beneath the pillow and his other curled in against his chest. Predictably, his thumb is stuck into his ever-hanging-open mouth, and he's sucking away like it knows all the answers to all the questions in the universe.

Stiles is wrapped in nothing but Derek's sheets and the cool, still air of his loft. The werewolf frowns and looks away, following his nose to the crumpled pile of dirty, bloody clothes heaped on the floor next to Stiles's shoes. He pads on bare feet and picks up Stiles's clothes, tossing them into the bathtub along with his own before filling the tub with cold water to soak them. He remembers someone telling him once that hot water will set blood stains, so... cold.

He's just avoiding the bed now, really, because all Derek's wearing is a towel riding low on his hips. Despite the fact that they've been dancing around each other for awhile now, nothing's really been discussed, and Derek's terrified of things like this. He can admit that to himself, at least, if no one else. It's just not that easy, the way people mash themselves together: physically, emotionally, whatever. He gets frustrated at how quickly these kids fall in and out of love.

He thinks it's protectiveness or maybe the stubborn idea of age and wisdom. Experience. Or maybe it's just jealousy. Maybe he just wishes he could move as easily and freely as they do.

He idly considers getting Stiles a pacifier just to be a dick. It's a bad habit of his, to do asshole-ish things when he feels like this. Story of his life, he supposes. He only knows how to dance to this one song.

“Stiles,” he all but hums, barely forming his name because he doesn't _really_ want to wake him, but it feels a little creepy to move closer to the bed without at least pretending to absolve himself of his true motivations. It's not until he's closer that he can see a bit of boxer shorts peeking out from where his sheets are twisted around Stiles's middle, and he's not sure if he's disappointed or relieved.

Derek sighs and changes into pajama pants. He sleeps on the couch, or at least tries to. Stiles keeps making these soft little sucking sounds around his thumb and they keep Derek up for most of the night, in more ways than one.

 

It's obviously rude and insensitive when Derek grabs Stiles by the wrist and yanks his thumb out of his mouth, but Stiles just snorts a laugh when it's immediately replaced with one of the bigger curly fries out of his Arbys' bag. Neither of them make a fuss because Derek's entire being is unintentionally rude and insensitive most of the time, and if Stiles were to say anything, Derek would just throw the 'my house, my rules' law back in his face.

“It's like quitting smoking,” Derek says casually, like he hadn't just crossed an unspoken line. “Be careful not to replace an oral fixation with a new addiction.”

“Oral... what?” Stiles's eyes narrow in disbelief.

“Oral fixation,” Derek frowns. “When you can't keep things out of your mouth.”

“I know what oral fixation means, asshat,” Stiles scoffs, throwing Derek a slightly churlish look as he tosses the bag away. He holds the remainder of his fries in his fist, greasing up his skin. “What do you mean? Do you think I _have_ one?”

“You obviously have one,” Derek states, wrinkling his nose a bit at the fact that Stiles is basically eating like an otter right now. But he _is_ just a teenage boy. Derek figures that if he'd been a normal eighteen year old boy all those years ago, he would probably have been just as disgusting, if not worse. “You're going to get buck teeth,” he continues, folding his arms and looking pointedly at Stiles.

“I am not–” Stiles cuts himself off as his tongue darts over his upper lip. He makes a face and runs it over over his front teeth, lip skinning up in an unintentional baring of teeth. “Do I have fucking buck teeth?” he panics. The curly fries are forgotten and dropped into the trash. With an annoyed sound, Derek moves quickly to grab a paper towel for Stiles because if he doesn't, that greasy hand is going to end up wiped on either Stiles's jeans or shirt, or the arm of Derek's couch.

“Not yet,” Derek smirks as he hands the paper towel over, shaking his head slightly and wondering how Stiles had managed to make it this long without a constant handler. “But it _could_ happen. Some people even need surgery to re-align their lower jaws.”

“You _already_ have buck teeth,” Stiles mutters, shooting Derek the stink-eye before hunching down on the couch and wiping his hands. Derek rolls his eyes and picks up after them. “How the hell do you know all this, anyway?” Stiles asks as he tosses the balled-up paper towel into the trashcan.

Derek shrugs. “I looked it up.”

“Your concern for me is overwhelming,” Stiles presses a hand to his heart and makes a fish-lips kissy face at Derek. Derek huffs.

It's true, though. Both the jaw re-alignment and his concern for Stiles.

 

Lydia moved to the east coast practically the moment her last exam was over, having gained early admittance to M.I.T. She sends her love often, but no one can blame her for wanting to get out as soon as possible. She doesn't have any real obligation to Beacon Hills. She's not pack.

Scott and Isaac are up in Oregon meeting with another small pack's alpha to talk about the possibility of moving more wolves into Beacon Hills. Typically this is something Derek would have gone along with them for, but this particular alpha had a beef with Derek's mother back in the day, so. Plus, Derek feels like his family's name doesn't do Scott any favors in establishing himself as his own alpha, so he's been avoiding that sort of responsibility more and more over the past year.

Aside from Stiles and Derek, the only person who's really around much right now is Allison. Chris encouraged her to take a year to think about her future. She is still young enough to get out of hunting, go to college, have a normal life. Because once it digs its claws too deeply into you, then you can _never_ get out. He says he'll respect her decision either way, but everyone can see the way his eyes hollow a little at the thought of Allison following in his footsteps.

Stiles got into Berkeley, but he's also taking at least a semester before going. “I just need a break,” he claims, but Derek is pretty sure Stiles is just afraid to leave. He's afraid of what will happen in Beacon Hills if he's not around to protect it, and he's afraid to be out on his own. The sheriff doesn't push him, because he surmises that juggling both school and the supernatural can't be easy on the kid. Sometimes he calls Stiles 'Buffy', which always gets a bit of a laugh. A resigned laugh, because she never actually finished college and died a few times, but a laugh nonetheless.

Ironically, this week it's possibly vampires.

“So, it's either me or Allison,” Stiles states with a sweet smile, before bringing his thumb up and chewing on his cuticles like it's an Olympic sport and he's going for the gold.

“Stop it,” Derek says offhandedly, smirking a bit as Stiles yanks his hand away from his mouth with a grumble and a considerable force of will: a scowl twists Stiles's features before he literally shoves his hands under his thighs, sitting on them. Derek snorts and shakes his head, but continues speaking. “If I'm going to take anyone with me to investigate vampires, it's going to be Allison, not you.”

“Oh, come on–”

“There's no way in hell Chris is going to give you the green light,” Derek shrugs. “You're not ready for vampires.”

Stiles clenches his jaw and sags a bit, because he knows it's true. When he asked Chris to start training him seven months ago, he had to agree not to argue on issues like this. Derek knows that sometimes Stiles feels helpless, useless, because he's constantly comparing himself to those around him. It's no wonder he has so many nervous habits. Derek's never met anyone who puts as much pressure on himself as Stiles.

“You're invaluable _here_ ,” Derek adds a bit gruffly, because he knows his sincerity can sometimes come off like pandering, and Stiles is insecure enough to take it that way more often than not. “I need your brain in working order, not smashed to pulp on a sidewalk by vampires.”

“Thanks,” Stiles smiles sardonically. "Gross."

“Your face is gross,” Derek retorts, deadpan.

Stiles snorts and grabs his phone, tapping out a quick text to probably either Allison or Chris, but Derek isn't concerned enough to peek. When he does look up, however, he sees Stiles dragging his legs up onto the couch as he makes himself comfortable, the book on vampires in his lap, and his fucking thumb right back in his mouth.

_Seriously?_

He sighs to himself as he watches Stiles absently working his mouth over the digit, cheeks filling and hollowing slowly as he sucks down to the palm of his hand. His index finger curls a bit as it bumps against his nose, which is when he turns his hand like he's screwing his thumb in tighter. He prods under his chin with his finger before slowly pulling his thumb out, teeth scraping over the pad before catching to gnaw briefly on his thumbnail.

Then he starts the entire process all over again.

It's nearly two full minutes before Derek realizes he's been staring, fascinated, watching as Stiles's spit-slick thumb disappears back into his mouth over and over again. In and out, in and out. Pink lips catching and dragging over the knuckle. The brief dart of his tongue and the work of his throat as he swallows the little thrusts.

It's another few seconds or so before Derek realizes he's half-hard against the fly of his jeans. His cheeks burn suddenly, and with all of the grace god has given a drunk rhinoceros, he jumps to his feet with a loud clearing of his throat, his own book falling to the loft floor with an embarrassingly loud thud that echoes. Of _course_ it echoes.

“D? You okay?” Stiles asks, hand hovering close to his mouth as he regards Derek curiously, but Derek doesn't answer.

He turns his back on Stiles and rushes toward the bathroom, muttering "I need to take a leak."

 

The vampires turn out to be a group of zombies that wandered way too far south after getting away from the apprentice necromancer who raised them from the dead up in Red Bluff. Stiles is disappointed when Derek tells him the story, and makes a lot of under-his-breath comments about hybrids and how cool vampire-werewolves would be.

“You've been watching The Vampire Diaries again, haven't you?” Derek asks flatly, shaking his head at Stiles's innocent shrug. “See what I mean? Oral fixation.”

“What?”

“If you think about it, everything about a vampire is focused solely on its mouth,” Derek says as he strips his henley and wads it up, tossing it into the trash. Claws and zombie guts have a tendency to ruin decent clothing. He walks into the bathroom and Stiles follows, leaning casually against the doorjamb.

“So you're saying I'd make a good vampire?” Stiles asks, smirking a little and puffing himself up a bit, like a peacock.

“Well, you certainly do suck,” Derek says with a playfully sarcastic smile, as he reaches into the shower stall and turns the water all the way to hot as hell.

“Oh, ha ha, hee hee, you're so funny,” Stiles says, with the sort of eyeroll only a Hale could appreciate, before sliding himself off of the doorjamb and walking out. “You have no idea, buddy,” Derek hears, muttered under Stiles's breath.

The atmosphere changes as Derek watches Stiles casually meander out into the living space as if he _hadn't_ just said something that he knew all too well Derek could hear. As if it hadn't been pointed and intentional. As if Stiles hadn't wanted Derek's eyes to linger as he picks his book back up from the table, and rests his back against the edge of the old, heavy wood. He lets the old tome fall open in one hand, lifting his other to skim a pair of fingers over his lower lip.

Derek guesses that Stiles is calling the dance done. Either that, or he really _is_ completely clueless.

No way, though. Stiles is much too clever to be clueless. Derek's suspicions are confirmed when the kid turns to glance back toward the bathroom, presumably to see why Derek hasn't closed the door yet. Their eye contact is a little heated as Stiles replaces his fingers with his thumb, the barest hint of pink tongue darting out along the underside of it before he pushes it between his lips and winks – fucking _winks_ – at Derek. Derek grunts and quickly shuts the bathroom door.

Right. Fine. Two can play this game.

 

Three days later, Stiles is sitting on the arm of Derek's couch researching selkies for Lydia. Derek vaguely remembers the phone conversation he overheard between Lydia and Stiles a few hours ago: _I swear I saw some in Boston Bay. Just send me some actual information. You know the Internet is useless._ The book is perched on his knees and he's not wearing any shoes, and for some reason Stiles's toes are fascinating Derek. He watches them knead against the couch cushions and realizes it's because he doesn't often see other people's feet.

Stiles's toes are long and bony, but his big toe is really big. It reminds Derek of the thumb Stiles currently has shoved in his mouth. The thumb Derek has been trying to work up the nerve to replace with his own finger for the better part of twenty minutes.

“So, your loft is pretty much the school library out of Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” Stiles says out of the blue. It snaps Derek out of his reverie, which he's not entirely sure he's grateful for.

“Does that make me Giles?” he asks, creasing his brow. He tries to imagine himself with a British accent, which basically just shorts his brain out a bit.

“No, you're Angel,” Stiles says with a smirk. “And you know it.”

Derek's smile is wan. “So, who's Buffy?”

“I dunno... Scott?” Stiles offers with a snicker.

“Yeah, no,” Derek says, wryly.

“I don't know,” Stiles laughs, gesturing his spit-shiny hand around. “Allison?”

“Also, no,” Derek scoffs, trying not to follow that hand with his eyes like a dog watches a treat. Instead he focuses on Stiles's mouth, which isn't any better.

“What, you've never thought about it?” Stiles inquires, dropping the book onto the couch and shifting slightly to face Derek, who's sitting at the table. “Allison or Lydia? Allison _and_ Lydia?” He smirks and presses his thumb against his lips, and nibbles at his thumbnail before running the tip of his tongue over the sharp edge. Derek clenches his teeth.

“No,” he says, heart pounding briefly as he gets to his feet and heaves a long, deep sigh. “I don't think about the girls.”

“Really? Why not–” but a meaningful look from Derek silences Stiles, all except for an “ _Oh_ ” of dawning realization. “Wow. How, uh... how come you never said anything?” Stiles asks, his brow furrowing as he glances at Derek like he's looking at him through new eyes. He's unreadable for the moment, which frustrates Derek.

“It wasn't important.”

“Is it, um...” Stiles begins, pausing to lick his lips, and Derek can hear his heartbeat speeding up a bit. “Is it important... _now_?”

_Step forward or step back? What's the next move? Can't stay here forever._

Derek tilts his head as he watches Stiles unthinkingly press his thumbnail back against his lips. His eyes lock onto Derek's as his teeth part and he tongues the tip of his thumb. Derek is already walking toward him by the time he pushes the meat of his thumb into his mouth.

“I told you to stop doing that,” Derek murmurs as he stops next to Stiles, whose eyes widen as he tilts his head back and stares up at Derek. For one beat, maybe two, their hearts thud together, and without a word Derek reaches out and takes hold of Stiles's wrist, tugging his thumb out of his mouth.

“Is this the part where you tell me you have something else I can suck on?” Stiles asks with a weak grin, his fingers curling in against his palm. He makes no move to tug his wrist away, only slides his saliva-coated thumb along the side of his index finger.

“Too trite.” Derek murmurs, feeling the sweaty prickle of heat crawl up the back of his neck. Warm arousal coils low in his stomach as he watches Stiles's pupils slowly dilate. “But–” he lifts his other hand and brings it up, knuckles brushing against the side of Stiles's jaw, pressing against the warm skin of his cheek and distorting his lips into a pout. “I've never really been that creative.”

Something locks into place between them as Derek brushes the pad of his thumb against Stiles's lower lip. It's like time slows, because this is that moment that people always write about; the moment where they could still walk away from this and call it a momentary lapse in judgment. A misunderstanding. A mistake that doesn't mean anything. A stupid thing that two stupid, sleep-deprived people, who have been spending way too much time together, never should have done in the first place.

But that's not going to happen, because Derek _wants_. He's been wanting for way too long, and no one could accuse him of not making stupid, self-indulgent moves.

He licks his own lips in sympathy before pressing his thumb between Stiles's offensively pink and moist lips, forcing Stiles's teeth to part around it like he's making a horse take a bit. His first contact with that heat bottoms his stomach out, like the feeling you get when you're standing on the edge of a cliff. Vertigo.

Stiles's brow furrows and Derek can see confusion and arousal flash over his features. They both know this isn't really like Derek. It's a little off the predicted path of their established routine, but that's why Derek did it. He wanted to be the one to surprise Stiles, for once.

“Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” Derek murmurs, the side of his mouth tugging up as he strokes his thumb gently along the length of Stiles's hot, wet tongue, before pressing down against his teeth, letting them indent his skin.

Stiles tries to move his hand, to tug it out of Derek's grip on his wrist, but Derek holds fast. He quirks an eyebrow down at Stiles and presses his thumb in deeper, smirking lightly. Stiles's other hand comes up and grabs Derek's wrist in response, trying to tug his thumb out of his mouth.

“Come on, Stiles,” Derek croons as he curls his fingers under Stiles's chin to hold him in place. “You like sucking thumbs so much, so what's wrong with mine?” Each annoyed sound Stiles makes caresses Derek's predator instinct. He likes the feel of Stiles's slender wrist flexing under his hold, the twist of tendon against bone, and the way he tries to pull his mouth off of Derek's thumb, though the hold on his chin prevents him.

Derek's always enjoyed their passive power play; the way Stiles can always put Derek in his place with a few well-chosen words, or the spike of Stiles's intelligent wit versus Derek's simple strength and worldliness. This is just one more notch in the belt of their life.

Stiles narrows his eyes and suddenly Derek's body is filled with a toe-curling, pleasurable heat as Stiles's lips and tongue wrap around his thumb and suck _hard_. Derek's eyes squeeze briefly shut. Derek grunts, and Stiles uses that moment to tip his head back, tugging his chin out of Derek's grip. He sucks firmly along the length of Derek's large thumb, dark eyes meeting Derek's as he pushes them open again. The pointed drag of Stiles's tongue over the pad of his thumb spikes straight to Derek's cock and sets everything in motion.

With a hungry sound, Derek pulls his thumb out of Stiles's mouth and grabs a handful of his hair instead, yanking Stiles's head back as he looms over him. After two years of making up excuses to work together, they crash into a hard, demanding kiss, resolving every lingering look and deliberate touch into passion and urgency.

Stiles kisses like he's starving for it, like someone who's never quite gotten his fill. Derek's always thought it was a fucking travesty that this kid wasn't getting laid constantly, but teenagers can sense weird and awkward and tend to avoid it, no matter how pretty the face or great the body. Stiles has filled out quite nicely over the past two years, and Derek's _really_ interested in seeing the body that Stiles tries so hard to hide.

They release each others' wrists, desperate to put their hands in other places. Derek's other hand palms over the sharp cut of Stiles's jaw before curling around the side of his neck. There's a near-constant low hum in his throat as Stiles nips and sucks at his tongue, before catching his lower lip between his teeth and drawing it into his mouth with a fucking _purr_.

Stiles's hands are all over the place, touching everything he's always wanted to touch but never had the chance to. They skim over Derek's hips, twisting and tugging at his shirt, grabbing at his shoulders and curving around his arms. His hands are always flighty and anxious, sort of like Stiles himself, but when they finally settle on Derek's abdomen, Derek softly growls his approval.

He approves even more when Stiles's hands drop south and start unbuttoning the fly of his jeans.

“Can I?” Stiles breathes against Derek's lips, and just the brush of them sends a shivery heat over Derek's skin. He nods. Less than a second later, Stiles is tugging the snug denim down over Derek's hips with one hand, while shoving his shirt up his stomach with the other.

“You sure?” Derek murmurs as he grabs the back collar of his shirt and tugs it over his head, tossing it in the vague proximity of the laundry basket. He can't help a little smile as Stiles's eyes glass over when he lifts them. Stiles comes as close to Derek's bare skin as he's ever dared before.

“Am I–” Stiles snorts. “Uh, _yeah_.” He rolls his eyes and makes a face that implies Derek's just asked the most ludicrous question on the entire planet, but it's lost as he presses his face against Derek's stomach and mouths over his navel, darting his tongue into the depression and sucking like it's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

Derek slides his fingers back into Stiles's hair and rumbles low in his chest, cock twitching in the confines of his boxerbriefs. The wet heat of Stiles's mouth travels down along the sparse hair that lines his lower stomach. His hands push at Derek's hips to force him a few steps back. Stiles slides off of the arm of the couch and drops to his knees just as his mouth covers Derek's half-hard cock, sucking lewdly at the soft cotton that covers it. He tongues at the material, pushes at it wetly with a soft moan, before teeth catch and release it.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Derek says through clenched teeth, his fingers reflexively fisting and tugging at Stiles's hair, which only seems to encourage the younger man. Those long, spidery fingers grab at Derek's hips as Stiles proceeds to soak the front of Derek's boxerbriefs with saliva, tongue dragging slow and firm along the prominent outline of Derek's cock as he coaxes him fully hard at an almost embarrassing speed.

“Been wanting to do this,” Stiles murmurs, “Since I was _sixteen_.” Stiles curls his fingers around the elastic of Derek's underwear. He tugs it down just far enough to expose the swollen head of Derek's dick, which he laps at softly.

“Why the hell _didn't_ you?” Derek asks through a hot, panting breath. The look Stiles shoots him all too succinctly says _because I didn't want to get my head ripped off_ , and Derek just rolls his eyes and nods absently. “Yeah, fine, fair enough.”

Derek's thighs tense as Stiles sucks lightly at the tip of his cock, worrying at the slit as he tongues the bead of precum. Derek's teeth grind as Stiles makes _that sound_ , that hungry little whine tight in his throat, and flexes his fingers around Derek's hipbones. Derek _knows_ that Stiles is trying not to reach down and let himself out of his own jeans, that he's trying not to grab his own dick, despite how much he wants to.

Derek can smell him now, and he smells _incredible_.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek says tightly as he scratches blunt fingernails over Stiles's scalp, but he doesn't have to say anymore because right then he feels his underwear yanked down to mid thigh. He hisses softly as his cock falls out, full and heavy. Stiles's mouth is immediately on him, sliding greedy and sloppy over his swollen flesh before sucking down the shaft. Derek tips his head back and hisses, then drags in a deep breath, forcing himself still to keep from bucking his hips, from shoving himself deep into Stiles's throat.

He can feel Stiles's inexperience, his curiosity, and his addictive enthusiasm. Stiles isn't new to this, but it's obvious he hasn't done it very often, and Derek finds his mind wandering into the land of awkward thoughts. Who else has he done this with? Derek doesn't recall smelling anyone new on Stiles in all the time he's known him; no one new in _that_ respect, anyway.

Derek feels weirdly possessive because it must have been with someone he knows, and that just raises a whole slew of questions. Thankfully, that thing Stiles is doing, skimming his teeth so lightly along the underside of Derek's cock, pulls him back with a shudder and a soft, groaning growl.

“Would you let me do this if I were a vampire?” Stiles mumbles against the head, one hand curled around Derek's length, squeezing and sliding his palm along the spit-slicked flesh.

“I don't know,” Derek says, his voice gravelly and distracted as he drops one hand to Stiles's shoulder and cups the other around the back of Stiles's head. “Maybe.” He glances down, dropping his chin nearly to his chest, and he knows his eyes glaze at the absolutely indecent sight of Stiles on his knees. His thighs are spread and his hips rocking absently as he strokes his hand slowly, firmly along Derek's cock, laving his tongue over the head like it's a goddamn ice cream cone.

“You wouldn't hate me _because_ I was a vampire?” Stiles asks, pausing to lick at his own lips which are swollen and red and _fuck_.

“No, this isn't fucking Twilight,” Derek huffs, slipping his fingers out of Stiles's hair and pinching lightly at the boy's lower lip. He wraps his hand around Stiles's hand, pumping those long fingers over his own cock a few times before nudging himself back between Stiles's lips. He slides Stiles's hand down to grip around the base of his cock as he rolls his hips slowly, eyelids fluttering as each shallow thrust pushes him just a bit deeper into Stiles's mouth.

Stiles grabs Derek's hips again and groans low, nails digging into the taut skin over Derek's hipbones as he struggles to keep his breath, taking it in deep through his nose, slow and steady. He opens his throat and tries to relax as best as he can, but he still chokes a few times, the deeper Derek gets. Derek is greedy for them: Stiles's little moans, his wanting sounds, his choking breaths as he takes Derek's cock. Stiles does _so_ fucking good. It's only another few minutes before Derek's hips start to stutter.

“Stiles, I'm close–” he says hoarsely, his fingers gripping the boy's hair so tight he feels a few strands break. He forces himself to loosen his grip so Stiles can pull off if he wants, but he doesn't. He just seals his mouth and sucks harder, bobbing his head faster, and Derek isn't surprised in the least. Stiles is just as greedy as he is. He spills into Stiles's mouth with a grunt through clenched teeth, locking his knees almost painfully as his head spins, because falling over after getting off wouldn't exactly be the smoothest move.

“Holy fuck,” Derek gasps hotly, puffing out his cheeks with a heavy exhale, clearing his head. He turns with very little grace, letting gravity do most of the work as he sort of tumbles down onto the couch, shoving and kicking his jeans and underwear off completely. That leaves him naked and Stiles still fully-clothed, which is absolutely unacceptable.

“Did I do good?” Stiles asks with a cheeky little grin as he pushes shakily to his feet and steps over in front of Derek. His eyes are bright and his pupils blown, his lips parted and stretched and damp pink, and just as - _fuck_ \- as they'd ever been.

“What do _you_ think?” Derek runs his tongue over his teeth as he reaches for Stiles's jeans, hastily unfastening them. Stiles just grins and preens a bit as he tugs his shirt off and drops it on the floor, and Derek can see the slender muscles in his abdomen tense and contract as he waits for Derek to take his jeans down... but he doesn't. He just unfastens them and lets the fly hang open, then grabs Stiles by the hips and holds him firm. He lifts his eyes to Stiles's face.

“Who have you been–” Derek starts, but he cuts himself off with a wince because he suddenly realizes how creepy and possessive that sounds. It's not his business. It's _not_.

But Stiles doesn't seem to care about any of that.

“Scotty.” Stiles shrugs, and his slender fingers grab his jeans and boxers and slowly push them down over his narrow hips, nonchalantly finishing what Derek has started. Derek doesn't hold on; he's happy to feel Stiles's jeans slip out from under his hands, leaving him with his palms flat against warm, smooth skin. “Since we were, like, thirteen. You know, 'experimenting',” he chuckles and holds up his hands, air-quoting, as he kicks his jeans and underwear aside.

“But Scott's not–” Derek starts, frowning because he's sure he would have noticed.

“No, he's not gay.” Stiles grins, reaching down and grabbing one of Derek's hands. “He's just my best friend. I'm not, either,” he continues with a shrug, pressing Derek's hand flat against his stomach before slowly dragging it up along his torso as he leans down, carefully shuffling onto the couch, a knee on either side of Derek's lap. “I just like who I like.”

“Oh,” Derek murmurs, splaying his large hands on either side of Stiles's face and tugging him down into a brief kiss. “Do you like _me_?” he asks quietly, speaking into their shared air, foreheads pressing together. Everything suddenly gets warmer, more intense, and Derek feels his stomach twist with instant regret. _That was a stupid fucking thing to ask. So stupid. Way to ruin a good thing, by putting him on the spot like that. Now he'll feel obligated; now you'll never really know the truth–_

“What do _you_ think?” Stiles smirks, throwing Derek's words right back at him and breaking him out of his dumb Derek-Hale-guilt-fueled brain sabotage.

Derek cants his head and listens to Stiles's steady, unwavering heartbeat, and smells only lust and affection on his skin. He licks his lips as he skims Stiles's lower lip with his thumb, his spent cock twitching with interest as Stiles chases Derek's thumb with his tongue.

“It's too quick,” Derek frowns slightly, fingers curling behind Stiles's jaw. Stiles glances at him blandly, almost bored.

“Two years, Derek,” Stiles chuckles a bit. “Some people get married after two _weeks_.” He grabs the back of the couch, giving himself leverage to press and rock his hips against Derek's. They both groan at Stiles's hard cock pressing and digging against Derek's pelvis, seeking pressure, relief, _anything_.

“Good thing I don't want to marry you,” Derek breathes, not giving Stiles the chance to reply before prodding his index and middle fingers against Stiles's lips. “But I might want to keep you.” Stiles's eyebrows lift a bit, his lips pressing together against a snicker. It's then that Derek mentally replays what he'd just said and rolls his eyes, sighing hastily. “You know what I–”

“Oh yeah, I know,” Stiles laughs softly, eyes gleaming and cheeks flushing even more so. “You want the Stiles _so_ bad.” Before Derek can retort, Stiles grants him permission between his lips, and all conversation is temporarily shelved. With a soft sound Derek strokes his fingers along the soft, warm tongue he can't wait to spend weeks, months getting better acquainted with.

“Get them wet,” Derek murmurs, gently twisting his fingers inside Stiles's mouth, watching Stiles's long-lashed eyelids flutter, his eyes rolling up beneath them. “Because I'm going to fuck you with them.”

Stiles just sort of folds into Derek with a shudder and a groan, lips tightening around his fingers and sucking at them hard and messy, all the way down to the big knuckles. He can hear Stiles's fingernails digging into the upholstery of the couch behind him, though he's shocked he can hear anything over the heavy, fast thudding of Stiles's heart. The soft, wet, sucking sounds zing along his spine and stir his cock, while each little grunt and moan that sticks in Stiles's throat warms his skin and tests his patience.

Only minutes later and he has Stiles pinned into the corner of the couch where the arm meets the back. Stiles has one leg crowded between Derek's body and the couch, and his other hiked up and stretched almost painfully, his knee hooked over Derek's shoulder. Two of Derek's fingers press into Stiles's mouth and two others work into his ass, pressed in knuckle-deep. Stiles looks like every wet dream Derek has ever had, and he both feels and smells like nothing that could _ever_ be good for him.

Stiles's body is responsive as hell, and Derek is going to love stretching him out on a bed and seeing what Stiles is really made of. But right now he's feeling too possessive, too dominant, and keeping him pinned into the couch like this, folded beneath him and completely in control of each one of those beautiful shudders, is everything Derek craves right now.

With each brush of his fingertips against Stiles's prostate, Stiles whines throatily and sucks hard on Derek's fingers in his mouth. His teeth gnaw sometimes, accidentally, and Derek kind of likes it. He made Stiles sit on his hands when he pushed him down, but now that Stiles is so tense and responsive, and now that Stiles's cock is a pretty, perfect shade of 'needs to fucking come', Derek decides to show a little mercy.

“I want you to touch yourself,” he rumbles, as his fingers play around Stiles's tongue, watching it darting desperately around his fingertips. Even the fucking _drool_ beading and rolling from the side of his mouth is hot. “But slow. For once in your life, try to show some restraint.”

Derek smirks as Stiles attempts to refocus his eyes long enough to give Derek what he can only assume is meant to be a dirty glare, but it really just looks like his eyes are crossing and he's about to pass out.

With a sharp bite to the invading fingers, Stiles yanks his hands out from under his ass and grabs at Derek's shoulder with one, squeezing firmly around the base of his cock with the other. Derek's fingers press and thrust deep inside of him, rubbing against the hard bundle of nerves as Stiles starts jerking himself like no one else knows how. He gives a long, throaty groan that resonates around Derek's fingers and feels fucking _sinful_. Derek feels it in his gut, in his bones, and in his own dick, which is hard and grinding against Stiles's inner thigh, as their tangled limbs and writhing bodies move together in the simplest rhythm there is.

Derek makes tight, rapacious sounds, and he drops his forehead to Stiles's and lowers his eyes to watch where they're joined. He adds a third finger and watches as all three thrust hard in and out of Stiles's slender body, slick with spit and the lube they found tucked in between the couch cushions.

Stiles's dick is shiny with lube, and he moves his hand over himself like a blind man speed-reading; he knows every step by heart. His skin barely bunches under the firm ridge of the head because Stiles likes to hold himself tight _._ He lingers and thumbs over the leaking tip of his cock with his bent index finger, before twisting gently on his way back down. Each shuddering breath and tense stretch of Stiles's body speaks volumes to Derek, and not even a full minute passes before he drops his mouth to Stiles's ear.

“I need you to come,” he rasps, his voice thick with the need to feel Stiles fall apart around his fingers. “ _Now_.”

“Hnn, _fuck_ yes,” Stiles gasps, his voice muffled and gummy from the fingers keeping his lips apart. Derek pulls them out and replaces them with his tongue, because he wants to taste the sounds Stiles makes when he comes more than anything else.

When Stiles shoots, he shoots _hard_. His release is hot on his stomach and Derek's chest, but his lips are cool. Derek can taste the salt of his fingers and the lingering bitterness of his own release on the boy's tongue, but the flavor of Stiles's own pleasure isn't something the wolf will ever forget.

Stiles's delighted laugh fills the loft space as Derek's face presses against his stomach. He drags his tongue over Stiles's skin, tasting the salty sweat and come as he greedily cleans Stiles off, humming happily. Stiles can feel Derek's grin against his skin, so there's no reluctance as he plants a hand in Derek's hair and combs his fingers through the short, dark locks.

“Who's got the oral fixation now, you animal?” Stiles teases, his smile sex-sated and weary as he watches Derek nuzzle against his bellybutton.

“Shut up,” is Derek's muffle response, which just sets them off again, both laughing softly.

 

It's not until two weeks later, when the two of them are looking into the propensity for the existence of giant eagles, that Derek notices.

“You stopped,” he says, apropos of nothing, drawing Stiles's attention. They both exchange confused looks, and it takes a few silent eyebrow furrows, curious head tilts, wide eyes, and head shakes from his boyfriend for Derek to get the fact that Stiles has no idea what he's talking about.

“Oh, uh–” Derek says, before holding up his thumb and wiggling it a bit, giving Stiles a meaningful look.

“ _Oh_ ,” Stiles echoes as he looks at his own hand, noting that the skin on his thumb has finally had the chance to heal up a bit around the nail, and finally looks like a normal color again. “Huh. Weird. I guess... I haven't felt like I need to anymore?” Stiles looks back up at Derek and gives him a weird, shy little smile. Warmth stirs in Derek's stomach and he returns Stiles's smile.

“Looks like I'm not the only one with a big stuffed wolf woobie,” Derek says, fondly.

Stiles snorts. “Look at you, with the jokes,” he says, winging a pen through the air at Derek's shoulder.

 

Stiles leaves for Berkeley in the winter.

He's not so afraid to go now that he knows he has so many things to come back to. Now that he has Derek to come back to. Stiles hasn't sucked his thumb since the first night he and Derek were together. Now he just sucks on Derek's thumb. His thumb, or anything else he can get his mouth on.

Three years later, when Stiles is twenty-one, he accidentally stumbles into a nest of vampires living on the Berkeley campus. _Literally_ stumbles. Turns out one of them forgot to secure the manhole cover that lead to their “underground lair.” As Stiles later tells the tale on the phone to Derek, “underground lair” is more like an unused sewer tunnel the vampires littered with stolen furniture and an overwhelming amount of junk. Stiles is delighted and can't stop laughing, saying it's like they stole their schtick straight out of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Derek wants to go see Stiles, to check on him. Derek wants to check on these vampires, too, but Stiles promises he has it all under control. Nothing's happened to him, he swears. He can't remember a single bad thing happening.

'Remember' being the operative word.

When Derek wakes up to a panicked phone call from Stiles a few days later, the wolves of Beacon Hills decide to go on a road trip to save one of their own from being mind-fucked and dragged into a nest of sewer-dwelling vampire scumbags. Seems these vampires like mind-controlling and turning college kids against their will, and Stiles is just one more casualty in a long line. But this line is going to come to an end, because as both Scott and Derek declare during the brawl down in the vampire's “underground lair,” they turned the wrong kid.

It feels like a bad television show. But after the fight is over and all the vampires are either dead or have fled, Stiles says that if they think about it, their entire lives _are_ pretty much like a bad television show.

Everyone is freaking out about Stiles. About what this means for the pack, for the sheriff, for Stiles's future. He's a vampire now, and everyone is terrified and worried: everyone except Derek and Stiles. They just share a laugh about the irony of the situation, when Stiles reminds Derek that he kind of called this happening back when he was eighteen.

Stiles refuses to Buffy his way out of college, but he _does_ transfer back to Beacon Hills to finish his degree by correspondence. Derek thinks it's necessary for Stiles to have a support net of monsters that are bigger and badder than him to keep him in check while he learns the ropes, and Stiles grudgingly agrees.

‹ _On my way home now._ _›_ Derek gets Stiles's text as soon as the sun drops down below the horizon. ‹ _Can't wait to get my mouth on my monster._ _›_

‹ _Goes both ways._ _›_ Derek sends back, smiling at his phone.

 

“Still love me?” Stiles murmurs through a smirk, eyes gleaming in the dark as he crawls up the length of Derek's bed. He slinks over Derek's body and settles on his hips. “Remember, you promised you would, even if–”

“I said I didn't know,” Derek reminds Stiles with a little smile, as he pushes himself up to sit. His arms wrap snugly around Stiles's waist before pulling him in close. “I said I _might_.” His skin raises in goosebumps as Stiles's cool, near room-temperature body presses against his. Stiles folds his arms around Derek's neck and holds him tight, holds him still, because now he _can_. Now he's strong enough, and he loves reminding Derek of that.

“You don't know?” Stiles grumbles, frowning playfully. “You _might_ still love me?” He presses his forehead to Derek's temple and narrows his eyes in a glare. Derek smiles knowingly because he doesn't smell any anger rolling off of Stiles, just a nastier, more predatory desire to play. “You, sir, _suck,_ ” Stiles concludes, fingernails scratching lightly at the fine hair at the base of Derek's neck.

Derek turns his head and presses his face against the side of Stiles's neck. He drops his hands down to grab two firm handfuls of Stiles's ass as he breathes in the smell of him. “No, it's actually _you_ who sucks, now,” he chuckles against Stiles's skin, warming it with his breath. “In pretty much every conceivable way.” Derek gives the skin a little nip-kiss and Stiles shivers lightly in response.

“Fine, maybe we _both_ suck,” Stiles says with a soft grin, lips parting just enough to flash the curve of a sharp tooth. “Now hand over that thumb.”

**Author's Note:**

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